


The Punk In The Shades

by traceExcalibur



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:32:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traceExcalibur/pseuds/traceExcalibur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An otherwise peaceful day for steampunk mob boss Draconian Dignitary is interrupted when he learns of yet another petty act of rebellion by some punk kid in a pair of triangular shades.</p><p>Written for a bonus round prompt during the Homestuck Shipping Olympics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Punk In The Shades

**Author's Note:**

> The original prompt can be found here: http://hs-olympics.dreamwidth.org/13513.html?thread=1820105#cmt1820105

You're relaxing in your office, looking out the window at the hustle and bustle of the city. It's a gorgeous place, but it's also daytime, so you don't give much of a shit. It's when night falls and the clubs open up that the city really starts to swing. You think tonight you might hit up Zahhak's joint. He's got gambling, betting, drinking, all that good stuff. Plus, there's the robot battles. You don't know how those things work; gears and oil and steam and who the fuck knows what else all coming together in some tiny automaton beating up some other tiny automaton. It's brilliant.  
  
Your plans for the night are interrupted, however, when some Droll from your gang wanders into your office, looking worried.  
  
“Um, Mr. Dignitary, there's been a problem.” He says.  
  
You swing around in your chair, give him your regards. “Don't be so stiff, kid. Dignitary is a title, not a name. Call me whatever you want – Double D, Diamonds, something like that. Just not Dee Dee, I ain't no little girl.”  
  
“Um, yes, mister Double Diamonds, sir!”  
  
You sigh. Stand up. That's good enough, you guess.  
  
“So what's the problem? I'm in no hurry to have a problem today, so it had better be major...no, scratch that. Better be minor. Gives me something good to ignore.”  
  
The Droll fidgets about for a bit. He looks nervous – could be a bad sign, but then, he's always nervous. “It's that boy, the one with the sunglasses. He put someone's head on display again...t-thought you should know.”  
  
Fuckin' magnificent. Exactly what you needed today, another rebel attack from the kid in the shades. He's been making a real mess of the town lately; seems to have this idea in his head that he can clean this place up, take down the mob. But this is Noir's town, and you like it that way. Lots of money, lots of perks, stylish duds, and a gambling hall on every street corner. No way in hell are you letting some upstart punk take any of that away from you. Looks like you're gonna have to take care of this kid, personally.  
  
“Anyone think to track the kid back to whatever rat's den he's livin' in?” you ask, but you know damn well the answer is gonna be no. Hardly anyone in this gang has an ounce of foresight. Shoot first, don't ask questions, blow your money on blackjack and billiards. There's some kinda charm in their dumbassery, when it ain't infuriating. Right now, it's infuriating.  
  
The Droll's face lights up. “Um, yeah! I followed him until he escaped into the sewers, and then ran back to tell you. I even drew a map!”  
  
You almost drop your cigarette in shock. The Droll holds up a piece of paper proudly. You take a moment to compose yourself all cool again, and then you grab it; it's the shittiest map you've ever seen, but it'll do the job.  
  
“Nice work, kid. Go buy yourself something nice.” You open up your desk, grab a wad of bills, toss it to him. You don't know how much you gave him, and don't really care either. You've got reserves. The kid looks like he just won a lifetime supply of candy.  
  
“T-thanks, mister Double Diamonds! Thanks so much!”  
  
He dashes out of the room with glee. You ready yourself to chase down the kid with the shades. You grab your favourite weapon – any sucker would think it's just a reinforced pool cue, but you flip a switch and out pops a blade from the top. Swish, swish, and off goes their head. Gotta love technology. Makes it so much easier and cleaner to kill people. You've got a pistol tucked in your belt, too, with plenty of gunpowder. A lot of folks around this town love to deck their weapons out with gears and metal doodads and all sorts of other crap. Not you. Your gun is simple, sleek, stylish. You pull it out, you pop your mark, you put it away. Simple as that.  
  
You exit your office, make your way outside. Your mob HQ is a big damn mansion right in the middle of the city, and why shouldn't it be? Up 'til the rebel kid showed up, no man, woman, or child would even dare try to take your gang down. Admittedly, you admire the kid. He's got moxie, you'll give him that. But you loathe him too, because he's a wrench in a very well-oiled operation.  
  
You find the kid's handiwork the moment you leave the front door. Noir insisted on having a gaudy statue erected right in front of your building. Some flashy affair with a bunch of weapons sticking out in every direction. He thought it looked menacing. You think it looks like shit, but whatever, you ain't gonna tell him that. Gotta keep the boss man happy. Today, some poor asshole's mug is speared on one of the statue's many giant knives. You wonder how the kid got the head up there. Jet shoes, maybe? How in the hell he can afford them is beyond you. Technology doesn't come cheap when a city runs on steam.  
  
You follow the Droll's chicken-scratch map to a manhole in an alley a while away from the mansion. There's a couple of blood spatters here; looks like the kid didn't clean up after himself. You're gonna have to get your hands – and suit – dirty for this one. It'd better be worth it. You climb down and breathe a sigh of relief. This isn't a sewer full of refuse and other crap. It's one of the many catacombs beneath the city where all of the steam pipes run. They aren't in the best condition and a blast of hot air assails you every now and then, but it beats wading through sludge. There's practically a whole city down here; vagrants and punks and whole homeless families live beneath the city, because they ain't got any room or money up above. You used to live down here, too, back in the days before your mob had any control over the city. You don't miss those days.  
  
You pass by some dirty runt who looks like he's spent all day crawling through vents. He looks nervous; maybe he recognizes you.  
  
“Hey, kid. You see a guy running around here earlier? Blonde hair, pointy shades?”  
  
The kid nods. “Uh-huh, mister! He went off down there!” He points you down a corridor, and sure enough you see a few blood stains on the walls. You start to walk down there, but the kid stops you, looks all indignant. “Aren'tchoo gonna thank me, or gimme a tip?”  
  
You smirk. This kid knows what's up; good on him. You flip him a few coins from your pocket and keep on going.  
  
The corridor leads you to a large room; you're directly beneath the city marketplace. Grates above you separate this section of the underground from the streets above. You hear cars rattling around, vendors shouting about their wares. You look around and something seems odd about this room; it's a dead end. Why the hell would he run down here? You realize it's a trap a moment too late – a metal door clangs behind you and the exit is sealed shut. Your mark probably paid the urchin kid off to point you this way. He's smarter than you gave him credit.  
  
But where is he?  
  
“Up here.” You swing your head around and spot him; he's up on some metal cylinder in the corner of the room nearest you. He gives you a wave. “The name is Dirk. Dirk Strider.”  
  
Charming. He's offering his name. He must think it means something to you. You guess you owe him the courtesy of returning the favour.  
  
“Call me Diamonds,” you say. “You've been causing us a lot of trouble, you know. You gonna apologize, or do I have to kill you?”  
  
“Actually,  _I'm_  going to kill  _you._ ” He says. You're not much of a laughing guy, but you snicker at that one.  
  
“Let's see you try.” You say, and so he does.  
  
The kid is surprisingly fast. He jumps down, swings some kind of sword at you. You block it with your cue stick, duck down, swing back. He dodges away and goes in for another swing; your cue stick clangs against his sword. You push your button and extend the blade but it doesn't quite reach him. He swings again, and again, fast and furious, and you realize you've been underestimating him. You step up your game, try and get past his guard, but he's actually beating you, and with one good hit he knocks you off balance and you drop your cue stick. He goes in for the kill and you're forced to roll away. Your suit is covered in grime, now, and you're gonna make him pay for that. You whip out your pistol and fire but he's still too quick; a blast of steam comes from his boots and he's up in the air, high above your shot. You try and reload but he drops down, kicks you in the face with hot steam and it stings like hell.  
  
“Let's go for a ride, Diamonds.” He says, and he grabs you and rockets into the air. He slams your head against the grate in the ceiling and you bust right through it, up onto the street above. He swerves around a car, keeps going higher and higher. You can see the city from here; trains shooting down the tracks, a zeppelin or two flying around. He tries to drop you but your resistance is too strong; you kick at one of his boots and it stops working, bite his hand and then hold onto his leg as the two of you start plummeting towards the ground. As he falls he tries to aim himself for one of the stalls in the market, hoping for a soft landing, but he picks the wrong one. Gears and pipes and assorted metal knickknacks spear you in the back and a couple get him too, and next you know you're lying on the ground and everything hurts. He gets on top of you but it's pretty clear that he's all out of juice and he can't finish you off. He gasps for a while, just stares at you. You've got no idea where his shades are, they went missing during the fall. His eyes are a brilliant orange and you'd love to jam a knife into them. If only Noir were here.  
  
“That was a nice date,” Strider says. “We should do it again sometime, handsome.” He leans down, plants some comedian-style kiss on your lips. Probably thinks it's going to make you mad, and he's right. You try and force him off of you but he just rolls right off, gets to his feet, starts limping away. Your body aches and you can't follow him.  
  
There's a crowd now, gawking at you and him. You finally summon the strength to stand. You brush yourself off, look at your suit. It's ruined. Fuckin' fantastic. Strider is out of sight and everyone is staring. You tell them to scram if they know what's good for them, and they get out of there fast. You start staggering back to your HQ. You feel like breaking something, but that ain't cool, so you don't. You've got appearances to maintain.  
  
Adding insult to injury, when you get back, what remains of the dead sap's head slides off the statue and lands at your feet. You decide you aren't going to kill the Strider kid anymore. No, that'd be much too easy, and he's made it clear he wants it hard.  
  
You're gonna rest up. Drink some coffee, listen to the radio for a while. Keep it cool.  
  
And then you're gonna find him. You're gonna haul his sorry ass back to HQ.   
  
And you're gonna make him  _hurt._


End file.
